IT'S ALIVE!!!
I finally got through the layers of the onion to get myself signed back in and a new password set up and...
So here I am, Thursday April 14th, 2016. A sunny day before the storm arrives tomorrow.
There will be more to follow soon.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Saturday, December 7, 2013
One Year Ago Today...
Just spent an hour trying to open my blog. Thanks Google! Grrrr....
Anyway...
One year ago I was having trouble with a pain in my leg. There were two spots in my lower left leg that hurt. I didn't know why, so I took some Tylenol and sat in the living room hoping that would take care of it. As many of you know, in 2010 I was diognosed with Large Granular Lymphosite Leukemia. The symptoms are flu like, high fever, chills, sweats, fatigue. I was referred to a specialist and was put on a drug called Methotrexate that seemed to be keeping me on an even keel after I had a secondary infection that put me in the hospital. I was doing OK, but had a weakened immune system.
Back to Dec. 7, 2012. During the month before, I had been getting flu-like symptoms. I got a flu shot and did a round of antibiotics that seemed to help. Still I wasn't feeling real well. The pain was getting worse. I took more Tylenol and tried to go to sleep for a while. Finally it was decided that I go to the hospital. We drove to emergency. I remember every bump and felt like it was taking forever. They admitted me and after that I don't remember much of the nest three days. I had developed a serious bacterial infection called necroizing fesciitis which I joking tell people is Latin for "Death Warmed Over." They gave me a 5% chance of survival. On the morning of December 8th my left leg was amputated above the knee.
According to people who where there, I had 15 IV bags hooked up to me. My bandmates played our music to me. My brother came in from California to see me. I don't remember any of these things. When I awoke, I was consious that I was in a hospital bed. I don't remember being aware of missing my leg. I felt like my leg was bent at the knee going through a hole in the bed. The other thing I remember was that there was music coming from another room. It sounded like there was a "Chuck Wagon Show" going on. I thought it was entertainment for the folks in the hospital. Cheesy cowboy and western songs served with some BBQ and beans. Later on before dawn there was a family gathering of these rich people who had been traveling and they were sharing what they'd been doing since their last meeting. It was very formal and took place in an art deco living room that was also kind of '40's space age modern. When I asked the nurses about it, I couldn't understand why they knew nothing about it. But these things happened two nights in a row.
As I became more conscious, I was still hallucinating when I closed my eyes. It wasn't pleasant acid trip colors and patterns and things you could control. This was dark and scary. The earth itself became volcanic mud and evil looking beings would morph from the mud. I tried listening to music. That wasn't a good idea. The music would just trigger more. I stayed awake until I couldn't take it anymore and then collapsed into short lived sleeps that would end when the nurses came 'round to check on me. I thought it was some aspect of my consciousness that needed atoning or something. I did lot of self-examination during this time. Some time later I found out that this was something called "surgical psychcosis" and wasn't uncommon among people who had been given the amount of chemicals I had. It was my body detoxing.
I don't remember who told me that my leg had been amputated. Maybe they told me before they did it and I somehow remembered. The nurses would change my dressing every so often and a doctor would check on me to see how it was healing. I accepted the fact that my life was going to be radically different then it had been before. All I knew was, I survived, and there must be a reason for that. For some reason the Universe still wanted me around and my mission here was unfulfilled. At least that's how I see it in the big picture. But in the short run there was another factor that got me through. It was the loving prayers, energy, good vibes, healing mojo... what ever you want to call it. Lots of people wanted to see me survive and dialed up their deity of choice and asked for some help for me. People came out of the woodwork. People I went to high school with who graduated in 1968. Friends of friends, the congregation of a church where my bass player was playing who happened to mention me to the pastor. People took the time to think of me in my hour of need and that's something I will never forget. How do you say "thank you" for that? I don't know. But that's what got me through.
It's been an interesting year to say the least. I've been learning to walk again with a prosthisis. I've gone from wheelchair, to walker, to forearm crutches, to a single cane and some steps around the house on my own. I've gained enough weight that I'm ready for a new socket since I can hardly fit into the current one. Other then an infection in March, I've been healthy. I'm on a new chemo drug that is boosting my white cell count which thrills my doctor to no end. The winter cold, ice and snow are trying, but I'm adapting to this new phase in my life. Yeah, there are days when I wish I could have my leg back. But that passes. I have songs unsung that need to be freed from my soul and manifest into the world.
So here I am a year later getting ready to celebrate the holidays and a birthday on New Year's Eve. I've made it this far. I couldn't have done it without you!
Special thanks to Poudre Valley Hospital ICU and dialysis units, Medical Center of the Rockies for patching my colon and getting me out of bed to start my physical therapy, Fresenius Medical Care especially for the day when they told me I wouldn't need dialysis anymore, Bill at Orthotic Prosthetic Solutions who is a major mentor and Ruth at Poudre Valley Rehabilitation Services who made physical therapy something I looked forward to.
Anyway...
One year ago I was having trouble with a pain in my leg. There were two spots in my lower left leg that hurt. I didn't know why, so I took some Tylenol and sat in the living room hoping that would take care of it. As many of you know, in 2010 I was diognosed with Large Granular Lymphosite Leukemia. The symptoms are flu like, high fever, chills, sweats, fatigue. I was referred to a specialist and was put on a drug called Methotrexate that seemed to be keeping me on an even keel after I had a secondary infection that put me in the hospital. I was doing OK, but had a weakened immune system.
Back to Dec. 7, 2012. During the month before, I had been getting flu-like symptoms. I got a flu shot and did a round of antibiotics that seemed to help. Still I wasn't feeling real well. The pain was getting worse. I took more Tylenol and tried to go to sleep for a while. Finally it was decided that I go to the hospital. We drove to emergency. I remember every bump and felt like it was taking forever. They admitted me and after that I don't remember much of the nest three days. I had developed a serious bacterial infection called necroizing fesciitis which I joking tell people is Latin for "Death Warmed Over." They gave me a 5% chance of survival. On the morning of December 8th my left leg was amputated above the knee.
According to people who where there, I had 15 IV bags hooked up to me. My bandmates played our music to me. My brother came in from California to see me. I don't remember any of these things. When I awoke, I was consious that I was in a hospital bed. I don't remember being aware of missing my leg. I felt like my leg was bent at the knee going through a hole in the bed. The other thing I remember was that there was music coming from another room. It sounded like there was a "Chuck Wagon Show" going on. I thought it was entertainment for the folks in the hospital. Cheesy cowboy and western songs served with some BBQ and beans. Later on before dawn there was a family gathering of these rich people who had been traveling and they were sharing what they'd been doing since their last meeting. It was very formal and took place in an art deco living room that was also kind of '40's space age modern. When I asked the nurses about it, I couldn't understand why they knew nothing about it. But these things happened two nights in a row.
As I became more conscious, I was still hallucinating when I closed my eyes. It wasn't pleasant acid trip colors and patterns and things you could control. This was dark and scary. The earth itself became volcanic mud and evil looking beings would morph from the mud. I tried listening to music. That wasn't a good idea. The music would just trigger more. I stayed awake until I couldn't take it anymore and then collapsed into short lived sleeps that would end when the nurses came 'round to check on me. I thought it was some aspect of my consciousness that needed atoning or something. I did lot of self-examination during this time. Some time later I found out that this was something called "surgical psychcosis" and wasn't uncommon among people who had been given the amount of chemicals I had. It was my body detoxing.
I don't remember who told me that my leg had been amputated. Maybe they told me before they did it and I somehow remembered. The nurses would change my dressing every so often and a doctor would check on me to see how it was healing. I accepted the fact that my life was going to be radically different then it had been before. All I knew was, I survived, and there must be a reason for that. For some reason the Universe still wanted me around and my mission here was unfulfilled. At least that's how I see it in the big picture. But in the short run there was another factor that got me through. It was the loving prayers, energy, good vibes, healing mojo... what ever you want to call it. Lots of people wanted to see me survive and dialed up their deity of choice and asked for some help for me. People came out of the woodwork. People I went to high school with who graduated in 1968. Friends of friends, the congregation of a church where my bass player was playing who happened to mention me to the pastor. People took the time to think of me in my hour of need and that's something I will never forget. How do you say "thank you" for that? I don't know. But that's what got me through.
It's been an interesting year to say the least. I've been learning to walk again with a prosthisis. I've gone from wheelchair, to walker, to forearm crutches, to a single cane and some steps around the house on my own. I've gained enough weight that I'm ready for a new socket since I can hardly fit into the current one. Other then an infection in March, I've been healthy. I'm on a new chemo drug that is boosting my white cell count which thrills my doctor to no end. The winter cold, ice and snow are trying, but I'm adapting to this new phase in my life. Yeah, there are days when I wish I could have my leg back. But that passes. I have songs unsung that need to be freed from my soul and manifest into the world.
So here I am a year later getting ready to celebrate the holidays and a birthday on New Year's Eve. I've made it this far. I couldn't have done it without you!
Special thanks to Poudre Valley Hospital ICU and dialysis units, Medical Center of the Rockies for patching my colon and getting me out of bed to start my physical therapy, Fresenius Medical Care especially for the day when they told me I wouldn't need dialysis anymore, Bill at Orthotic Prosthetic Solutions who is a major mentor and Ruth at Poudre Valley Rehabilitation Services who made physical therapy something I looked forward to.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Remembering "Nymbus"
Erik Blum, who hosts the West Coast Fog online radio show that specializes in obscure west coast psychedelia, recently asked me for my rememberances of the Hayward band Nymbus. Some live tapes of theirs from ~1970 have recently surfaced and transfered to vinyl and CD for sale. Search "Nymbus" on YouTube for further details.
BTW, If anyone knows the whereabouts of Laura Hill (who is mentioned in the piece below), please contact me. I'd just like to know how her life turned out.
Here's what I wrote for Erik:
Remembering Nymbus
I grew up in Hayward, CA, a blue collar suburb 28 miles southeast of San Francisco on the Eastern shore of the Bay. A one time farming community, Hayward was famous for the Hunts Tomato Cannery. During canning season the town smelled of ketchup. It was growing and prospering with new suburbs and industrial parks and schools.
I believe I first came across Nymbus during the year of 1969. I was 16. The earliest reference to the band I remember was a discussion with a friend of my brother. He played guitar and was talking about light gauge Gibson strings and said that was what the local guitar heroes used and one that he mentioned was Joel Anderson. The bass player, Mike Filloon was the son of one of the popular teachers I had at Calaroga Junior High.
I had a friend named Frank Burt who everyone called “Squirrel” (my handle was “Firehead.”) who had friends that went to Tennyson High School. We were younger and attended Mt. Eden High. Through him I began to meet different people who went to the rival school.
I don’t remember the first time I saw Nymbus, but it was probably one of the dances at the recreation center at George Weekes Park. “The Rec Hall” was one of our usual haunts. There was the “Teen Drop In” on one week night and from time to time there were dances on the weekends. The Drop In was a time to meet up with friends (girls) and go out into the park and get high and be silly. For the most part I went to the dances at my High School and the Rec Hall. I was learning guitar and checked out every band around. I also liked to dance. It was a good way to meet girls. (Sense a common theme here?)
I’m trying to recall the other popular local bands at the time, but so many came and went. I was also expanding my horizons by spending my weekend nights at places like the Fillmore West, The Family Dog on the Great Highway and Winterland in San Francisco among other venues. That year I first saw groups such as the Grateful Dead & Led Zeppelin. I might add that I survived Altamont, but didn’t stay for the Stones. Maybe that’s why I survived.
So, Nymbus appeared on my radar and I started going to see them. The Yardbirds with Jeff Beck had been favorites and I recognized Joel’s Beck influence. “Jeff’s Boogie” was on their set list and Joel nailed it. Other songs were originals and I never really learned the names of them. I recognized them by the guitar riffs more then the lyrics.
Being a gear head, I always checked out what bands used onstage. Most local bands used Fender or Sunn or Vox amps. Marshall’s were still exotic and weren’t seen much. Nymbus played through Ampeg amps. Both Joel and Mike had matching rigs, possibly V-22 heads through 2 x 15” cabs? Mike had an Ampeg bass, the kind Rick Danko of the Band used. I think he sometimes used a Fender bass as well. Joel was playing a Fender Telecaster and sometimes a blue (?) Rickenbacker 360 six string that had Gibson humbucking pickups installed. I don’t remember what Brian played. I was pretty oblivious to the drums. I think he had a double kick kit, but I couldn’t tell you what brand or anything. Joel got a good overdrive sound and I once asked him how he got it and he said he had a “preamp.” As I recall it was a homemade box that boosted the signal from his guitar overdriving the amp.
Unlike a lot of bands at the time who played covers, Nymbus was an original band with an upful vibe. I think that was the attraction for me. Good songs, good singing and a smoking lead guitarist. I talked ‘em up every chance I got. I remember telling some friends how good I thought they were and one who’d been a singer in a bunch of bands said, “Jesus, you act like they’re Cream or something.” I don’t know how I answered, but in my mind, I thought they were kind of the local version. I remember the first time I heard Led Zeppelin, I thought Jimmy Page sounded a lot like Joel Anderson.
While I usually saw them at the Rec Hall and maybe a concert at the Hayward Municipal Park bandshell, Nymbus played one gig out of town that I attended. There was a big rock festival in San Jose with Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix I believe at the Fairgrounds. Nearby there was a counter-festival in a park. Kind of a protest at the ticket prices of the big festival. There was camping there, and a lot of people stayed the night at the park who were attending the festival. They had a stage and a PA cobbled together and every local band who could get there played and among them was Nymbus. I had hitch-hiked down from Hayward with “Squirrel” and his girlfriend, Angelica. I think they had tickets for the big festival. I ran into some friends from Hayward and hung out at their campsite while they went to the big festival. I’d dropped acid and when Squirrel and Angelica came back to start home, I decided to stay the night.
Besides the local bands playing, there was a surprise guest band. After their set at the big festival, Jefferson Airplane came over and played. They previewed songs from their forthcoming album “Volunteers” and were rocking out when the PA went down. Paul, Jorma, Jack and Spencer got into jam mode and played in a way I never heard before or since. More like Quicksilver or the Dead then the jams I’d heard them play before. What I remember most is the way they weaved the 12 string, bass and lead guitar together. The PA got sorted out, and they played a great set.
I don’t remember when Nymbus played, but I remember that they played well and were well received. The next morning I ran into them and managed to catch a ride back to Hayward. It was one of the first times I actually hung out with them for any length of time. I was pretty spaced from the acid and however much pot I’d smoked and little to eat, so I probably wasn’t the best conversationalist. And I was pretty shy at the time. I don’t remember much about the ride home other then getting dropped off a ways from home and having to hoof it back to my own neighborhood.
Over the months I continued to see the band. One gig I’ll never forget was one at the Rec Hall where I set eyes on this lovely young blonde girl in baggy jeans. Her hair was down to her ass and she had the most beautiful smooth skin. Her name was Laura Hill. We got to talking and over time developed a sweet high school romance.
As time went on there were changes in the band. I remember a Hammond Organ player with them a time or two and maybe a different bass player? I got involved with a band doing Country-Rock who thought Led Zeppelin were totally un-cool. I started playing more and hanging out with different people who liked to go to the beach to play acoustic guitars and pound on conga drums. Nymbus faded from my consciousness and I didn’t really hear much about them until a few years later after I moved away for college in Humboldt County. I read BAM Magazine and saw ads and mentions of a group called “The Awesome Light Band.” And there in the band picture was Joel Anderson. The circle turned again.
Nymbus were part of the soundtrack of my life in a time when the world was on fire, and anything was possible. The old world was dying and a new one was being born. And I’m glad we were there for each other. Thanks for the music guys!
RIP Mike Filloon
BTW, If anyone knows the whereabouts of Laura Hill (who is mentioned in the piece below), please contact me. I'd just like to know how her life turned out.
Here's what I wrote for Erik:
Remembering Nymbus
I grew up in Hayward, CA, a blue collar suburb 28 miles southeast of San Francisco on the Eastern shore of the Bay. A one time farming community, Hayward was famous for the Hunts Tomato Cannery. During canning season the town smelled of ketchup. It was growing and prospering with new suburbs and industrial parks and schools.
I believe I first came across Nymbus during the year of 1969. I was 16. The earliest reference to the band I remember was a discussion with a friend of my brother. He played guitar and was talking about light gauge Gibson strings and said that was what the local guitar heroes used and one that he mentioned was Joel Anderson. The bass player, Mike Filloon was the son of one of the popular teachers I had at Calaroga Junior High.
I had a friend named Frank Burt who everyone called “Squirrel” (my handle was “Firehead.”) who had friends that went to Tennyson High School. We were younger and attended Mt. Eden High. Through him I began to meet different people who went to the rival school.
I don’t remember the first time I saw Nymbus, but it was probably one of the dances at the recreation center at George Weekes Park. “The Rec Hall” was one of our usual haunts. There was the “Teen Drop In” on one week night and from time to time there were dances on the weekends. The Drop In was a time to meet up with friends (girls) and go out into the park and get high and be silly. For the most part I went to the dances at my High School and the Rec Hall. I was learning guitar and checked out every band around. I also liked to dance. It was a good way to meet girls. (Sense a common theme here?)
I’m trying to recall the other popular local bands at the time, but so many came and went. I was also expanding my horizons by spending my weekend nights at places like the Fillmore West, The Family Dog on the Great Highway and Winterland in San Francisco among other venues. That year I first saw groups such as the Grateful Dead & Led Zeppelin. I might add that I survived Altamont, but didn’t stay for the Stones. Maybe that’s why I survived.
So, Nymbus appeared on my radar and I started going to see them. The Yardbirds with Jeff Beck had been favorites and I recognized Joel’s Beck influence. “Jeff’s Boogie” was on their set list and Joel nailed it. Other songs were originals and I never really learned the names of them. I recognized them by the guitar riffs more then the lyrics.
Being a gear head, I always checked out what bands used onstage. Most local bands used Fender or Sunn or Vox amps. Marshall’s were still exotic and weren’t seen much. Nymbus played through Ampeg amps. Both Joel and Mike had matching rigs, possibly V-22 heads through 2 x 15” cabs? Mike had an Ampeg bass, the kind Rick Danko of the Band used. I think he sometimes used a Fender bass as well. Joel was playing a Fender Telecaster and sometimes a blue (?) Rickenbacker 360 six string that had Gibson humbucking pickups installed. I don’t remember what Brian played. I was pretty oblivious to the drums. I think he had a double kick kit, but I couldn’t tell you what brand or anything. Joel got a good overdrive sound and I once asked him how he got it and he said he had a “preamp.” As I recall it was a homemade box that boosted the signal from his guitar overdriving the amp.
Unlike a lot of bands at the time who played covers, Nymbus was an original band with an upful vibe. I think that was the attraction for me. Good songs, good singing and a smoking lead guitarist. I talked ‘em up every chance I got. I remember telling some friends how good I thought they were and one who’d been a singer in a bunch of bands said, “Jesus, you act like they’re Cream or something.” I don’t know how I answered, but in my mind, I thought they were kind of the local version. I remember the first time I heard Led Zeppelin, I thought Jimmy Page sounded a lot like Joel Anderson.
While I usually saw them at the Rec Hall and maybe a concert at the Hayward Municipal Park bandshell, Nymbus played one gig out of town that I attended. There was a big rock festival in San Jose with Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix I believe at the Fairgrounds. Nearby there was a counter-festival in a park. Kind of a protest at the ticket prices of the big festival. There was camping there, and a lot of people stayed the night at the park who were attending the festival. They had a stage and a PA cobbled together and every local band who could get there played and among them was Nymbus. I had hitch-hiked down from Hayward with “Squirrel” and his girlfriend, Angelica. I think they had tickets for the big festival. I ran into some friends from Hayward and hung out at their campsite while they went to the big festival. I’d dropped acid and when Squirrel and Angelica came back to start home, I decided to stay the night.
Besides the local bands playing, there was a surprise guest band. After their set at the big festival, Jefferson Airplane came over and played. They previewed songs from their forthcoming album “Volunteers” and were rocking out when the PA went down. Paul, Jorma, Jack and Spencer got into jam mode and played in a way I never heard before or since. More like Quicksilver or the Dead then the jams I’d heard them play before. What I remember most is the way they weaved the 12 string, bass and lead guitar together. The PA got sorted out, and they played a great set.
I don’t remember when Nymbus played, but I remember that they played well and were well received. The next morning I ran into them and managed to catch a ride back to Hayward. It was one of the first times I actually hung out with them for any length of time. I was pretty spaced from the acid and however much pot I’d smoked and little to eat, so I probably wasn’t the best conversationalist. And I was pretty shy at the time. I don’t remember much about the ride home other then getting dropped off a ways from home and having to hoof it back to my own neighborhood.
Over the months I continued to see the band. One gig I’ll never forget was one at the Rec Hall where I set eyes on this lovely young blonde girl in baggy jeans. Her hair was down to her ass and she had the most beautiful smooth skin. Her name was Laura Hill. We got to talking and over time developed a sweet high school romance.
As time went on there were changes in the band. I remember a Hammond Organ player with them a time or two and maybe a different bass player? I got involved with a band doing Country-Rock who thought Led Zeppelin were totally un-cool. I started playing more and hanging out with different people who liked to go to the beach to play acoustic guitars and pound on conga drums. Nymbus faded from my consciousness and I didn’t really hear much about them until a few years later after I moved away for college in Humboldt County. I read BAM Magazine and saw ads and mentions of a group called “The Awesome Light Band.” And there in the band picture was Joel Anderson. The circle turned again.
Nymbus were part of the soundtrack of my life in a time when the world was on fire, and anything was possible. The old world was dying and a new one was being born. And I’m glad we were there for each other. Thanks for the music guys!
RIP Mike Filloon
Sunday, January 15, 2012
And On We Go into the New Year
It's been a while since I posted. Here we are in the year 2012. If it contiunes like it's started it will be memorable.
Friday and Saturday I was playing with Lalla Rookh up in Estes Park, CO for the Winter Festival. Friday night was tough, playing in a fairground pavillion with little heat. The wind was howling outside and the bathrooms were about a half mile up the road. Luckily there was hot apple cider that I used as a hand warmer and hot chocolate to give me the energy to get through the last set. It was cold, but not as cold as the gig with Tuatha at Beltainia in 2010. We were provided rooms in the form of a couple of condos. I shared one with our bass player, Jim, his wife Megan and their almost two year old son Parker. I got the upstairs suite. Parker is a fun kid. We then played a long set on Saturday. It was a lot warmer and we actually donned the kilts.
After playing and changing out of gig clothes I hung out a little to listen to SHEL, a girl group consisting of four sisters and their father, then drove down the canyon home. I turned on the radio just as E-Town was coming on and I was treated to sets by Mumford and Sons along with Fort Collins locals, Danelle Ate the Sandwich. There was traffic but the drivers were acting civil and it was smooth ride along the Big Thompson River. I always think of my father when I drive this road. He lived in Loveland at one time and his parents are buried there. I still think of a family vacation when we went to the Dam Store (still in business) and to a couple of lakes in the foothills.
Instead of driving through Loveland, I took the Masonville road that goes through the foothills and Horsetooth Lake. There were few other cars, just a few bicyclists taking advantage of a warm winter day. The music was good and with new tires my car was running fine. Masonville is a little community with horse ranches, small farms and a feel that is totally different from most of the Front Range. Kind of the town that time forgot. Just one of those little perfect moments.
Last year was much better then the year before. I'm able to travel again. We took a trip to Jackson Hole to visit extended family and to help with the Swan Roundup which assists transfering trumeter swans to different places and reintroducing them to former habitats. The good news was, I didn't end up in the hospital like I did in the previous year's visit. We took a daytrip to Yellowstone for wildlife viewing seeing lots of bison, elk and even a mama griz and her cubs (from a safe distance). Even though it was early June, there was a lot of snow on the ground and one of the lakes was still frozen. I love seeing Yellowstone in different seasons.
The next trip took me home to California for my brother's 60th birthday. I was going to take the train out, but there was track out in Nebraska, so my train got cancelled. After getting a refund, I found a cheap flight on Frontier airlines. They let me take my guitar onboard but they speared my soft bag somehow. I didn't discover it until I was unpacking. I have no idea how they managed to do that. I was met at the airport by OMO Brother Bill Russell. We stopped in San Mateo and found a little Vietnamese restaurant. Yum!
I didn't get out as much as I'd have liked to on the trip. I was still dealing with fatigue and lack of endurence. We did get in a trip to Bean Hollow Beach for some personal time with Our Mother Ocean. So good to recharge at one of my "power spots." That was followed by a drive up to Skyline Drive through the redwoods.
My brother's 60th was a blast. Besides meeting my Great-Nephew for the first time, I got to see a bunch of friends who I don't think I've seen in 35 years. I also met my brother's new girlfriend. (Welcome to the family!) It seemed like everytime I turned around there was someone I haven't seen in years.
The next adventure was a day of sailing thanks to Capt. Gary Hall who took Bill and I out on his 35ft. sailboat. We went from Alameda, under the Bay Bridge (while I'd been over the bridge hundreds of times, it was the first time I went under it) behind Alcatraz and on the back side of Angel Island where we "parked" for lunch where a CD of The Grateful Dead's "Soundcheck at the Cow Palace" played as we ate lunch and sat in the sun. Talk about "perfect moments." From there, we sailed around the island and caught the wind coming through the Golden Gate and flew across the water back to the bay bridge where we lost the wind and motored back to port.
The next day I was picked up by my "Driver for the Day" in a '74 Cadillac, Mr. Jim Davis and his wife Pat. We took the Sunol canyon road out to Livermore to the Eckert Winery where Mike Eckert makes wine. Mike was another one of the "haven't seen in 35 years crew." We were joined by two more, Mark Horning and Tom Tidwell. After sampling the tastey wines, we went to a restaurant where my old pal Richard Sinkler and his band were hosting an open mic. Gary Hall joined us again as did my brother and his sweetie. I played two songs with the band and during the break, Richard and I played a few songs as a duo. For not having played together in 35 years, I'd say we done good!
It was great to be surrounded by old friends, connecting the ones who hadn't met and getting to play some tunes. Thank you, Richard Sinkler!
I took the train home. I love that trip, especially going throught he Sierras and the Rockies. I woke up somewhere in southeastern Utah as the sun was rising in what they call buttermilk skies contrasted with the red rocks of the landscape. And I had the feeling that I was getting near my home. I'm a long ways from the ocean, but Colorado has really become home.
Those were probably the highlights of 2011. My health continues to improve, I'm doing more and more music and I feel more connected to friends and family. And there's been a lot of reconnecting with old friends. Life is good. As we near the beginning of "The Year of the Dragon" I feel that we're living in auspicious times.
Friday and Saturday I was playing with Lalla Rookh up in Estes Park, CO for the Winter Festival. Friday night was tough, playing in a fairground pavillion with little heat. The wind was howling outside and the bathrooms were about a half mile up the road. Luckily there was hot apple cider that I used as a hand warmer and hot chocolate to give me the energy to get through the last set. It was cold, but not as cold as the gig with Tuatha at Beltainia in 2010. We were provided rooms in the form of a couple of condos. I shared one with our bass player, Jim, his wife Megan and their almost two year old son Parker. I got the upstairs suite. Parker is a fun kid. We then played a long set on Saturday. It was a lot warmer and we actually donned the kilts.
After playing and changing out of gig clothes I hung out a little to listen to SHEL, a girl group consisting of four sisters and their father, then drove down the canyon home. I turned on the radio just as E-Town was coming on and I was treated to sets by Mumford and Sons along with Fort Collins locals, Danelle Ate the Sandwich. There was traffic but the drivers were acting civil and it was smooth ride along the Big Thompson River. I always think of my father when I drive this road. He lived in Loveland at one time and his parents are buried there. I still think of a family vacation when we went to the Dam Store (still in business) and to a couple of lakes in the foothills.
Instead of driving through Loveland, I took the Masonville road that goes through the foothills and Horsetooth Lake. There were few other cars, just a few bicyclists taking advantage of a warm winter day. The music was good and with new tires my car was running fine. Masonville is a little community with horse ranches, small farms and a feel that is totally different from most of the Front Range. Kind of the town that time forgot. Just one of those little perfect moments.
Last year was much better then the year before. I'm able to travel again. We took a trip to Jackson Hole to visit extended family and to help with the Swan Roundup which assists transfering trumeter swans to different places and reintroducing them to former habitats. The good news was, I didn't end up in the hospital like I did in the previous year's visit. We took a daytrip to Yellowstone for wildlife viewing seeing lots of bison, elk and even a mama griz and her cubs (from a safe distance). Even though it was early June, there was a lot of snow on the ground and one of the lakes was still frozen. I love seeing Yellowstone in different seasons.
The next trip took me home to California for my brother's 60th birthday. I was going to take the train out, but there was track out in Nebraska, so my train got cancelled. After getting a refund, I found a cheap flight on Frontier airlines. They let me take my guitar onboard but they speared my soft bag somehow. I didn't discover it until I was unpacking. I have no idea how they managed to do that. I was met at the airport by OMO Brother Bill Russell. We stopped in San Mateo and found a little Vietnamese restaurant. Yum!
I didn't get out as much as I'd have liked to on the trip. I was still dealing with fatigue and lack of endurence. We did get in a trip to Bean Hollow Beach for some personal time with Our Mother Ocean. So good to recharge at one of my "power spots." That was followed by a drive up to Skyline Drive through the redwoods.
My brother's 60th was a blast. Besides meeting my Great-Nephew for the first time, I got to see a bunch of friends who I don't think I've seen in 35 years. I also met my brother's new girlfriend. (Welcome to the family!) It seemed like everytime I turned around there was someone I haven't seen in years.
The next adventure was a day of sailing thanks to Capt. Gary Hall who took Bill and I out on his 35ft. sailboat. We went from Alameda, under the Bay Bridge (while I'd been over the bridge hundreds of times, it was the first time I went under it) behind Alcatraz and on the back side of Angel Island where we "parked" for lunch where a CD of The Grateful Dead's "Soundcheck at the Cow Palace" played as we ate lunch and sat in the sun. Talk about "perfect moments." From there, we sailed around the island and caught the wind coming through the Golden Gate and flew across the water back to the bay bridge where we lost the wind and motored back to port.
The next day I was picked up by my "Driver for the Day" in a '74 Cadillac, Mr. Jim Davis and his wife Pat. We took the Sunol canyon road out to Livermore to the Eckert Winery where Mike Eckert makes wine. Mike was another one of the "haven't seen in 35 years crew." We were joined by two more, Mark Horning and Tom Tidwell. After sampling the tastey wines, we went to a restaurant where my old pal Richard Sinkler and his band were hosting an open mic. Gary Hall joined us again as did my brother and his sweetie. I played two songs with the band and during the break, Richard and I played a few songs as a duo. For not having played together in 35 years, I'd say we done good!
It was great to be surrounded by old friends, connecting the ones who hadn't met and getting to play some tunes. Thank you, Richard Sinkler!
I took the train home. I love that trip, especially going throught he Sierras and the Rockies. I woke up somewhere in southeastern Utah as the sun was rising in what they call buttermilk skies contrasted with the red rocks of the landscape. And I had the feeling that I was getting near my home. I'm a long ways from the ocean, but Colorado has really become home.
Those were probably the highlights of 2011. My health continues to improve, I'm doing more and more music and I feel more connected to friends and family. And there's been a lot of reconnecting with old friends. Life is good. As we near the beginning of "The Year of the Dragon" I feel that we're living in auspicious times.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Farewells
Mourning the deaths of Beth Eisenhauer, friend and one of Lalla Rookh's biggest fans, and Kyle Dyas, Music Director of KUNC-FM in Greeley who first played our music on the air. Beth was found dead in her home after friends hadn't heard from her. Kyle jumped off a 42 story building in Denver Sunday.
There're a couple of holes in the fabric of the Universe today.
There're a couple of holes in the fabric of the Universe today.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Music News Update
I have left the band Tuatha, at least as far as playing with them on a regular basis. While my health continues to improve, I still don't have the energy that is required to keep up. They practice twice a week, and there are festivals that require camping, and I'm just not up for it. They have been nice enough to invite me to sit in from time to time, so I can see that happening. It's been a good ride. We created that band from nothing. Got together, fleshed out things William had and some things Traci had some too and we and wrote most everything else. Recorded a kick-ass CD produced by Tierro Lee of Kan'nal. I feel very grateful to have those opportunities.
Two days after I left, Tuatha, I got a call from Mary from Lalla Rookh, the Celtic band I've been part of for over ten years saying she want's to put the band back together. Since our fiddler, Kay, is teaching school in Abu Dabi right now, I'm a little skeptical. But they say when one door closes, another opens. All I can do is stand in the hall and peek in the door that's open a crack and see if it's somewhere I want to go. (I'll take door number three, Monty!)
The other musical project, Paul and Tom's Green Band, is still going strong as far as getting tight. We've played two open mics to get our feet wet in front of an audiance and may have some other gigs coming up. Our violinist, Fiona Pace, is still getting settled with work and housing stuff, so she hasn't been able to practice as much as we'd like. We're willing to wait. Everyone waited for me when I was sick and Deb, our drummer had shoulder surgery right after we first met, so waiting for Fiona doesn't seem like a problem. The Green Band is mostly acoustic, so it's easy to do. Deb plays a stripped down drum kit and Tom plays a fretless electric through a small amp. I'm playing acoustic guitar so we aren't carrying tons of gear and can play anywhere from a living room to a theater. Throw up a few microphones and were ready to go.
In the meantime, I'll get out a few instruction videos and keep practicing. You can always improve. Geeze, now I have to remember how to play all of those mandolin parts for Lalla Rookh...
Two days after I left, Tuatha, I got a call from Mary from Lalla Rookh, the Celtic band I've been part of for over ten years saying she want's to put the band back together. Since our fiddler, Kay, is teaching school in Abu Dabi right now, I'm a little skeptical. But they say when one door closes, another opens. All I can do is stand in the hall and peek in the door that's open a crack and see if it's somewhere I want to go. (I'll take door number three, Monty!)
The other musical project, Paul and Tom's Green Band, is still going strong as far as getting tight. We've played two open mics to get our feet wet in front of an audiance and may have some other gigs coming up. Our violinist, Fiona Pace, is still getting settled with work and housing stuff, so she hasn't been able to practice as much as we'd like. We're willing to wait. Everyone waited for me when I was sick and Deb, our drummer had shoulder surgery right after we first met, so waiting for Fiona doesn't seem like a problem. The Green Band is mostly acoustic, so it's easy to do. Deb plays a stripped down drum kit and Tom plays a fretless electric through a small amp. I'm playing acoustic guitar so we aren't carrying tons of gear and can play anywhere from a living room to a theater. Throw up a few microphones and were ready to go.
In the meantime, I'll get out a few instruction videos and keep practicing. You can always improve. Geeze, now I have to remember how to play all of those mandolin parts for Lalla Rookh...
Medical Update
I saw the doctor last Monday. Weighed in at 171 lbs. The blood counts are up and while a couple of catagories could use improving, over all, things are good. He's keeping me on the same medication and doesn't want to see me for three months. I'd call that good news.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Holiday Greetings!
2010, the year I almost died, got divorced and got to eat as much of anything I wanted with a license to smoke dope!
The year started out much like any other year. We had a long winter with snow on the ground for the whole season. In February, I got a nasty fever (as high as 103) with “flu like symptoms.” I figured it was one of those 24-hour viruses that kick your ass and move on. But then it happened again. Then again and again. Finally I saw our family doctor about it. After having some blood work done she referred me to an Oncologist. After taking blood, bone marrow and other bodily fluids I was diagnosed in March as having Large Granular Lymphocyte Leukemia. Leukemia is one of those buzz words that freaks people out. For some reason I wasn’t scared. I knew I’d get through it once I knew how to deal with it. Besides, I knew what I had was rare and while life disrupting, it wasn’t life threatening.
What is LGL Leukemia? First of all “Leukemia” covers a wide spectrum of blood diseases. What happens with the form that I have is that the white blood cells form a sand-like crust around them and quit working. They don’t fight off infections, they take up space healthy cells could use and they don’t die off. I think of them as a bunch of old soldiers who sit around at the VFW, drink whiskey, smoke cigars and congratulate each other for defeating the Hun without acknowledging the young soldiers who are out fighting today. They put me on a chemo drug, Methotrexate, which I take once a week in pill form. No blood or bone marrow transplants, no IV chemo drugs. I got off easy.
In April I went with Laura and a couple of friends to Jackson Hole, WY for some wildlife viewing with our friends, Ralph, Louise and their daughter Susie who were hosting us. The first night there I noticed my ankle had swollen up and the next day we decided to have it looked at. After trying to decide if we should go to a clinic, we chose to go to the hospital. They looked at it, took my vitals and put me in ICU. My blood pressure had dropped and my temperature spiked. They put me on IV wide spectrum antibiotics and I was there for several days getting poked, prodded, X,Y&Z-Rayed, Cat Scanned (a nice English Tabby), you name it. They decided that I had a secondary infection in my ankle and pneumonia. They were afraid that I’d get blood clots so they had a continuous massage machine on my legs. Every so often they’d let me out of bed to sit with my leg raised. A couple of ski-babes came by to give me physical therapy teaching me how to use crutches. They didn’t want me to put weight on the swollen ankle, so when I was released, it was with crutches.
Only I wasn’t released to go home, I was released to check into our local hospital. Since our friends who brought us up to Jackson had already gone home, our hosts offered to drive us back to Fort Collins and take me to Poudre Valley Hospital. Since their grandchildren are in Fort Collins as well, it was a perfect opportunity for them to spoil them a little more. I spent a few more days in the hospital where I could be taken care of by my own doctor. When I was released I had in-home care for ten days where a nurse would come by twice a day to give me IV antibiotics. Did I mention I had a tube inserted that ran from my mid arm to near my heart? Makes it easy to hook up IV bottles or give injections. After ten days that was removed and I was back at home and on my own. That’s when things got interesting.
The antibiotics totally screwed up my digestive tract. Whenever I’d eat, it felt like there were two fists in my stomach punching each other. It got to a point where the only things I could eat was rice, my friend Kay’s chicken soup, mashed potatoes, honey-vanilla yogurt and interestingly enough, Indian food from our local Indian restaurant, Taj Mahal in small quantities (I think the rice pudding for desert made the difference). During the next several months I was extremely weak, dehydrated and malnourished. I was given different nausea drugs that helped to varying degrees, but all of them had a common side effect, they put me to sleep. During this time I remembered that a friend had given me a “green” brownie that had been wrapped in the freezer. I ate a chunk of it and it helped more then any of the prescription drugs. And while it altered my consciousness a bit, I could dose myself to get the most relief and the least of the high. In August I applied for my MMJ license, and though I haven’t really needed it in the past few months, it’s there if I things change. (I know some of you who knew me in High School might find it hard to believe, but I make Mormon Missionaries look like party animals as far as intoxicants and caffeine go.)
Well, with the stomach problems and other side effects, I lost weight. I got down to 134 lbs. I looked like a skeleton with flesh or a just liberated P.O.W. My friends and family were worried. With a compromised immune system, if I got sick, it could get real serious fast. I was going in several times a week for IV’s to rehydrate me. Slowly I turned the corner. I started to eat more different things and the stomach war wasn’t so intense. If I had problems after I ate, ginger ale or ginger cookies would take care of it. On Saturdays, I’d go to the Farmer’s Market to get some exercise, socialize and to try to eat different things (Noosa Yogurt became one of my best friends!).
In September, I was put on steroids for eight weeks. That’s when things began to change. I was scouted by both the Rockies and the Giants and was hitting over.400 easy. (Not really…) What happened was I began to have energy again. At one point I’d been so weak that I couldn’t even lift my bass let alone play it. I kept a guitar in the living room and was playing it when I could, but the pressure of it against my ribs, hurt. But after the steroids some good things happened. The stomach problems went away! I could eat. Before long I was eating like a teenager, just non-stop munchies. I drank Boost nutritional supplement beverage twice a day for the calories and I could tolerate a bunch of foods I couldn’t stand the taste of before. I could eat bananas again, salsa, tortillas, tomatoes… It was a lot better then plain rice and saltines that’s for sure. More importantly, both my red and white cell counts went up!
Since then, things have gotten much better. I’m still taking the chemo drugs every Sunday morning with few side effects. After going off steroids the swelling in my ankles went away, the doctor has been putting more time between appointments, first six weeks then three months. I’ve played some gigs with the world fusion band, Tuatha, and I’m working on another project called “The Green Band.” Oh, and I weigh in excess of 170 lbs. But best of all I feel good!
In other news, our divorce became final the other day. “But wait a second, Pablo,” you say. “You and Laura never got married.” There’s an Irish fiddle tune called “You Married My Daughter, But You Didn’t.” The law in Colorado is something like that. Since we bought a house together, we’re considered “Common Law.” Nothing like the Government making choices for you, is it? But that’s another rant for another time. So in order for me to be eligible for certain benefits and programs to help us with medical expenses, we had to get divorced. Nothing has really changed. We’re still together as always. Friends have suggested that we have a divorce party to celebrate our new life together. Might just happen…
While 2010 was a year I’ll long remember, though there’s much I’d like to forget, I survived with a little help from my friends and extended family. Laura was with me every step of the way. Sometimes screaming and pulling her hair our, or afraid she’d come out to the living room in the morning and find me dead, but she’s been there. I can’t begin to express my gratitude for that. So many friends have put up with my illness and madness and called, sent cards, visited me in the hospital or at home. Thank you one and all! I am a lucky man. As Laura and I said in the middle of this, “We have the best friends in the world.”
So, I’d like to wish for you and yours many blessings and love for the New Year (and beyond!). Words fail me, but the feelings are strong. Remember, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or puts you on the talk show circuit.
One Love, Blessed Be!
-Paul
The year started out much like any other year. We had a long winter with snow on the ground for the whole season. In February, I got a nasty fever (as high as 103) with “flu like symptoms.” I figured it was one of those 24-hour viruses that kick your ass and move on. But then it happened again. Then again and again. Finally I saw our family doctor about it. After having some blood work done she referred me to an Oncologist. After taking blood, bone marrow and other bodily fluids I was diagnosed in March as having Large Granular Lymphocyte Leukemia. Leukemia is one of those buzz words that freaks people out. For some reason I wasn’t scared. I knew I’d get through it once I knew how to deal with it. Besides, I knew what I had was rare and while life disrupting, it wasn’t life threatening.
What is LGL Leukemia? First of all “Leukemia” covers a wide spectrum of blood diseases. What happens with the form that I have is that the white blood cells form a sand-like crust around them and quit working. They don’t fight off infections, they take up space healthy cells could use and they don’t die off. I think of them as a bunch of old soldiers who sit around at the VFW, drink whiskey, smoke cigars and congratulate each other for defeating the Hun without acknowledging the young soldiers who are out fighting today. They put me on a chemo drug, Methotrexate, which I take once a week in pill form. No blood or bone marrow transplants, no IV chemo drugs. I got off easy.
In April I went with Laura and a couple of friends to Jackson Hole, WY for some wildlife viewing with our friends, Ralph, Louise and their daughter Susie who were hosting us. The first night there I noticed my ankle had swollen up and the next day we decided to have it looked at. After trying to decide if we should go to a clinic, we chose to go to the hospital. They looked at it, took my vitals and put me in ICU. My blood pressure had dropped and my temperature spiked. They put me on IV wide spectrum antibiotics and I was there for several days getting poked, prodded, X,Y&Z-Rayed, Cat Scanned (a nice English Tabby), you name it. They decided that I had a secondary infection in my ankle and pneumonia. They were afraid that I’d get blood clots so they had a continuous massage machine on my legs. Every so often they’d let me out of bed to sit with my leg raised. A couple of ski-babes came by to give me physical therapy teaching me how to use crutches. They didn’t want me to put weight on the swollen ankle, so when I was released, it was with crutches.
Only I wasn’t released to go home, I was released to check into our local hospital. Since our friends who brought us up to Jackson had already gone home, our hosts offered to drive us back to Fort Collins and take me to Poudre Valley Hospital. Since their grandchildren are in Fort Collins as well, it was a perfect opportunity for them to spoil them a little more. I spent a few more days in the hospital where I could be taken care of by my own doctor. When I was released I had in-home care for ten days where a nurse would come by twice a day to give me IV antibiotics. Did I mention I had a tube inserted that ran from my mid arm to near my heart? Makes it easy to hook up IV bottles or give injections. After ten days that was removed and I was back at home and on my own. That’s when things got interesting.
The antibiotics totally screwed up my digestive tract. Whenever I’d eat, it felt like there were two fists in my stomach punching each other. It got to a point where the only things I could eat was rice, my friend Kay’s chicken soup, mashed potatoes, honey-vanilla yogurt and interestingly enough, Indian food from our local Indian restaurant, Taj Mahal in small quantities (I think the rice pudding for desert made the difference). During the next several months I was extremely weak, dehydrated and malnourished. I was given different nausea drugs that helped to varying degrees, but all of them had a common side effect, they put me to sleep. During this time I remembered that a friend had given me a “green” brownie that had been wrapped in the freezer. I ate a chunk of it and it helped more then any of the prescription drugs. And while it altered my consciousness a bit, I could dose myself to get the most relief and the least of the high. In August I applied for my MMJ license, and though I haven’t really needed it in the past few months, it’s there if I things change. (I know some of you who knew me in High School might find it hard to believe, but I make Mormon Missionaries look like party animals as far as intoxicants and caffeine go.)
Well, with the stomach problems and other side effects, I lost weight. I got down to 134 lbs. I looked like a skeleton with flesh or a just liberated P.O.W. My friends and family were worried. With a compromised immune system, if I got sick, it could get real serious fast. I was going in several times a week for IV’s to rehydrate me. Slowly I turned the corner. I started to eat more different things and the stomach war wasn’t so intense. If I had problems after I ate, ginger ale or ginger cookies would take care of it. On Saturdays, I’d go to the Farmer’s Market to get some exercise, socialize and to try to eat different things (Noosa Yogurt became one of my best friends!).
In September, I was put on steroids for eight weeks. That’s when things began to change. I was scouted by both the Rockies and the Giants and was hitting over.400 easy. (Not really…) What happened was I began to have energy again. At one point I’d been so weak that I couldn’t even lift my bass let alone play it. I kept a guitar in the living room and was playing it when I could, but the pressure of it against my ribs, hurt. But after the steroids some good things happened. The stomach problems went away! I could eat. Before long I was eating like a teenager, just non-stop munchies. I drank Boost nutritional supplement beverage twice a day for the calories and I could tolerate a bunch of foods I couldn’t stand the taste of before. I could eat bananas again, salsa, tortillas, tomatoes… It was a lot better then plain rice and saltines that’s for sure. More importantly, both my red and white cell counts went up!
Since then, things have gotten much better. I’m still taking the chemo drugs every Sunday morning with few side effects. After going off steroids the swelling in my ankles went away, the doctor has been putting more time between appointments, first six weeks then three months. I’ve played some gigs with the world fusion band, Tuatha, and I’m working on another project called “The Green Band.” Oh, and I weigh in excess of 170 lbs. But best of all I feel good!
In other news, our divorce became final the other day. “But wait a second, Pablo,” you say. “You and Laura never got married.” There’s an Irish fiddle tune called “You Married My Daughter, But You Didn’t.” The law in Colorado is something like that. Since we bought a house together, we’re considered “Common Law.” Nothing like the Government making choices for you, is it? But that’s another rant for another time. So in order for me to be eligible for certain benefits and programs to help us with medical expenses, we had to get divorced. Nothing has really changed. We’re still together as always. Friends have suggested that we have a divorce party to celebrate our new life together. Might just happen…
While 2010 was a year I’ll long remember, though there’s much I’d like to forget, I survived with a little help from my friends and extended family. Laura was with me every step of the way. Sometimes screaming and pulling her hair our, or afraid she’d come out to the living room in the morning and find me dead, but she’s been there. I can’t begin to express my gratitude for that. So many friends have put up with my illness and madness and called, sent cards, visited me in the hospital or at home. Thank you one and all! I am a lucky man. As Laura and I said in the middle of this, “We have the best friends in the world.”
So, I’d like to wish for you and yours many blessings and love for the New Year (and beyond!). Words fail me, but the feelings are strong. Remember, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or puts you on the talk show circuit.
One Love, Blessed Be!
-Paul
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
More Health News
Since I last posted on things, I've been doing better. I last saw the doctor in November and he dosen't want to see me until February. I still have a little fatigue and I need to exercize more, but I'm up to around 170 lbs. and I'm concentrating on eating well, not just eating a lot like I was when I was just trying to gain weight.
I had that sinus cold that's been going around. I saw our family doctor for that and she said I should get a flu shot. I never had one before, but since my immune system isn't as strong, I went along with it. Within five hours I had the chills and shakes for a couple of hours before having a fever. After a rough night I was OK. Hmmmm...
So (knock on wood) things are going well.
I had that sinus cold that's been going around. I saw our family doctor for that and she said I should get a flu shot. I never had one before, but since my immune system isn't as strong, I went along with it. Within five hours I had the chills and shakes for a couple of hours before having a fever. After a rough night I was OK. Hmmmm...
So (knock on wood) things are going well.
Stop the War on Solstice
There’s a War on Solstice right now–-and the danger is real. Yes, these little “Baby in the Manger” displays seem harmless enough, but did you know they are religious displays? That’s right. Those harmless little figurines on the city library lawn are there to convert your children! Santa just wants you to buy presents you can’t afford; Jesus wants your soul!
What harm can it do? Can their little rituals hurt you? Eventually. These people practice what is called “Christianity,” and what they really want is to convert you and your children to their religion. Eventually, they want to convert everybody.
And if they succeed, what then? What harm could possibly come of it?
What if the year comes where nobody performs proper pagan Solstice rituals and the Sun dies for good? We’ll be plunged into an eternity of darkness, that’s what will happen! These little “Christmas Creche” displays are part of the anti-pagan plan to push Sol aside completely. Unstopped, this innocent Christian idolatry will destroy the world.
It’s time to put a stop to the “Creche Madness” and ban these destructive idols from city property. Before the darkness consumes everything.
-Tom Surace
© tekHedd for tekHedd -
What harm can it do? Can their little rituals hurt you? Eventually. These people practice what is called “Christianity,” and what they really want is to convert you and your children to their religion. Eventually, they want to convert everybody.
And if they succeed, what then? What harm could possibly come of it?
What if the year comes where nobody performs proper pagan Solstice rituals and the Sun dies for good? We’ll be plunged into an eternity of darkness, that’s what will happen! These little “Christmas Creche” displays are part of the anti-pagan plan to push Sol aside completely. Unstopped, this innocent Christian idolatry will destroy the world.
It’s time to put a stop to the “Creche Madness” and ban these destructive idols from city property. Before the darkness consumes everything.
-Tom Surace
© tekHedd for tekHedd -
Remembering Captain Beefheart
Capt. Beefheart's 10 Commandments for Guitarists
1. LISTEN TO THE BIRDS
That’s where all the music comes from. Birds know everything about how it should sound and where that sound should come from. And watch hummingbirds. They fly really fast, but a lot of times they aren’t going anywhere.
2. YOUR GUITAR IS NOT REALLY A GUITAR
Your guitar is a divining rod. Use it to find spirits in the other world and bring them over. A guitar is also a fishing rod. If you’re good, you’ll land a big one.
3. PRACTICE IN FRONT OF A BUSH
Wait until the moon is out, then go outside, eat a multi-grained bread and play your guitar to a bush. If the bush doesn’t shake, eat another piece of bread.
4. WALK WITH THE DEVIL
Old delta blues players referred to amplifiers as the “devil box.” And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you’re bringing over from the other side. Electricity attracts demons and devils. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.
5. IF YOU’RE GUILTY OF THINKING, YOU’RE OUT
If your brain is part of the process, you’re missing it. You should play like a drowning man, struggling to reach shore. If you can trap that feeling, then you have something that is fur bearing.
6. NEVER POINT YOUR GUITAR AT ANYONE
Your instrument has more power than lightning. Just hit a big chord, then run outside to hear it. But make sure you are not standing in an open field.
7. ALWAYS CARRY YOUR CHURCH KEY
You must carry your key and use it when called upon. That’s your part of the bargain. Like One String Sam. He was a Detroit street musician in the fifties who played a homemade instrument. His song “I Need A Hundred Dollars” is warm pie. Another church key holder is Hubert Sumlin, Howlin’ Wolf’s guitar player. He just stands there like the Statue of Liberty making you want to look up her dress to see how he’s doing it.
8. DON’T WIPE THE SWEAT OFF YOUR INSTRUMENT
You need that stink on there. Then you have to get that stink onto your music.
9. KEEP YOUR GUITAR IN A DARK PLACE
When you’re not playing your guitar, cover it and keep it in a dark place. If you don’t play your guitar for more than a day, be sure to put a saucer of water in with it.
10. YOU GOTTA HAVE A HOOD FOR YOUR ENGINE
Wear a hat when you play and keep that hat on. A hat is a pressure cooker. If you have a roof on your house the hot air can’t escape. Even a lima bean has to have a wet paper towel around it to make it grow.
1. LISTEN TO THE BIRDS
That’s where all the music comes from. Birds know everything about how it should sound and where that sound should come from. And watch hummingbirds. They fly really fast, but a lot of times they aren’t going anywhere.
2. YOUR GUITAR IS NOT REALLY A GUITAR
Your guitar is a divining rod. Use it to find spirits in the other world and bring them over. A guitar is also a fishing rod. If you’re good, you’ll land a big one.
3. PRACTICE IN FRONT OF A BUSH
Wait until the moon is out, then go outside, eat a multi-grained bread and play your guitar to a bush. If the bush doesn’t shake, eat another piece of bread.
4. WALK WITH THE DEVIL
Old delta blues players referred to amplifiers as the “devil box.” And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you’re bringing over from the other side. Electricity attracts demons and devils. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.
5. IF YOU’RE GUILTY OF THINKING, YOU’RE OUT
If your brain is part of the process, you’re missing it. You should play like a drowning man, struggling to reach shore. If you can trap that feeling, then you have something that is fur bearing.
6. NEVER POINT YOUR GUITAR AT ANYONE
Your instrument has more power than lightning. Just hit a big chord, then run outside to hear it. But make sure you are not standing in an open field.
7. ALWAYS CARRY YOUR CHURCH KEY
You must carry your key and use it when called upon. That’s your part of the bargain. Like One String Sam. He was a Detroit street musician in the fifties who played a homemade instrument. His song “I Need A Hundred Dollars” is warm pie. Another church key holder is Hubert Sumlin, Howlin’ Wolf’s guitar player. He just stands there like the Statue of Liberty making you want to look up her dress to see how he’s doing it.
8. DON’T WIPE THE SWEAT OFF YOUR INSTRUMENT
You need that stink on there. Then you have to get that stink onto your music.
9. KEEP YOUR GUITAR IN A DARK PLACE
When you’re not playing your guitar, cover it and keep it in a dark place. If you don’t play your guitar for more than a day, be sure to put a saucer of water in with it.
10. YOU GOTTA HAVE A HOOD FOR YOUR ENGINE
Wear a hat when you play and keep that hat on. A hat is a pressure cooker. If you have a roof on your house the hot air can’t escape. Even a lima bean has to have a wet paper towel around it to make it grow.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Good Health News
I saw the Doctor yesterday. Not only is the red cell count up, but the WHITE CELL count is up for the first time!!! He's taking me off the steroids (slowly) and keeping me on the same chemo drug. I'm up to 158 lbs. I'd had one shot to boost the red cell count about a month ago (they were going to be weekly), but I haven't needed anymore and no more shots are scheduled. I don't have another appointment to see the Doctor until November so things are going right.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Music, Sweet Music, There'll Be Music Everywhere...
One thing good about being on steroids, is that my energy level is back up. I can actually lift the P-Bass, something I couldn't do a few months ago. For the last few months, I've kept a guitar in the living room next to the couch so I could pick it up and play it whenever I could. Slowly it's coming back. I bought a couple of instruction videos for playing Chicago style blues guitar and I'm working with them.
The other night I went to Tuatha practice. We have some gigs coming up, but the substitute bass player will be taking care of the low notes. We played the songs that I don't play bass on and then got out my slide and kind of noodled in the background. It was fun! Maybe I can do that at some of the upcoming shows.
For the last couple of Mondays Paul, Tom & the Green Band have gotten together. The band consists of Tom Surace on fretless bass, Deb Braynt on drums and myself playing acoustic guitar. Everyone sings. It's a groovy little combo playing a lot of "Reefer Music" from the '20's to the present as well as some country-blues, folk-rock and original material. Think early Hot Tuna as a rough analog.
We thought of adding a fourth member, but it sounds good as is. We're going to carry on as a trio until the right person comes along. Ideally that would be someone who sings and plays a solid rhythm acoustic guitar but also plays fiddle, accordion, Dobro or ???
I think we'll be gigging soon. A My Space and/or Facebook page will be forthcoming.
It feels good to be making music again.
The other night I went to Tuatha practice. We have some gigs coming up, but the substitute bass player will be taking care of the low notes. We played the songs that I don't play bass on and then got out my slide and kind of noodled in the background. It was fun! Maybe I can do that at some of the upcoming shows.
For the last couple of Mondays Paul, Tom & the Green Band have gotten together. The band consists of Tom Surace on fretless bass, Deb Braynt on drums and myself playing acoustic guitar. Everyone sings. It's a groovy little combo playing a lot of "Reefer Music" from the '20's to the present as well as some country-blues, folk-rock and original material. Think early Hot Tuna as a rough analog.
We thought of adding a fourth member, but it sounds good as is. We're going to carry on as a trio until the right person comes along. Ideally that would be someone who sings and plays a solid rhythm acoustic guitar but also plays fiddle, accordion, Dobro or ???
I think we'll be gigging soon. A My Space and/or Facebook page will be forthcoming.
It feels good to be making music again.
Back to the Blog
Finally I figured out how to get back in here to post on the blog. Yee Haw!
So, here's the latest update.
In March, after being sick in February, I found out that I had Large Granular Lympocyte Leukemia. What that means is that my white cells are not dying off, they aren't fighting off infections and they aren't letting young healthy white cells get in and do the job. I started a pill form of chemotheropy and went through a lot of different stages of illness. I had fevers, fatigue and slept a lot.
In late April I went to Jackson Hole and ended up in the hospital with secondary infections. They filled with antibiotics and kept me in ICU. I transfered to Poudre Valley Hospital here in Fort Collins and stayed a few more days before going home. The following ten days I had home care and recieved IV antibiotics twice a day. That's when my stomach freaked out. I couldn't eat much of anything without feeling like a war was going on in my belly. I could eat rice, and a few other things. That was mid May. Slowly over the months I figured out ways to eat more and settle my stomach (ginger ale, MMJ, Noosa Yogurt, Kay Williams' chicken soup...), but in the meantime I lost weight and was at one point down to 134 lbs. I also went through a period of severe dehydration around the fourth of July and was going in for IV's. I looked like a survivor of a POW camp.
At the beginning of September, they put me on a daily steriod. Something clicked. My stomach got better, I can eat about anything now, my weight is up to over 150 lbs and I have energy again. I hope it lasts when they take me off of them.
I'm still doing chemo, but while my red cell counts are up, the white cells are the same. It looks like they're going to change my chemo drug. We'll see what happens next!
So, here's the latest update.
In March, after being sick in February, I found out that I had Large Granular Lympocyte Leukemia. What that means is that my white cells are not dying off, they aren't fighting off infections and they aren't letting young healthy white cells get in and do the job. I started a pill form of chemotheropy and went through a lot of different stages of illness. I had fevers, fatigue and slept a lot.
In late April I went to Jackson Hole and ended up in the hospital with secondary infections. They filled with antibiotics and kept me in ICU. I transfered to Poudre Valley Hospital here in Fort Collins and stayed a few more days before going home. The following ten days I had home care and recieved IV antibiotics twice a day. That's when my stomach freaked out. I couldn't eat much of anything without feeling like a war was going on in my belly. I could eat rice, and a few other things. That was mid May. Slowly over the months I figured out ways to eat more and settle my stomach (ginger ale, MMJ, Noosa Yogurt, Kay Williams' chicken soup...), but in the meantime I lost weight and was at one point down to 134 lbs. I also went through a period of severe dehydration around the fourth of July and was going in for IV's. I looked like a survivor of a POW camp.
At the beginning of September, they put me on a daily steriod. Something clicked. My stomach got better, I can eat about anything now, my weight is up to over 150 lbs and I have energy again. I hope it lasts when they take me off of them.
I'm still doing chemo, but while my red cell counts are up, the white cells are the same. It looks like they're going to change my chemo drug. We'll see what happens next!
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Christmas
Holiday greetings, one and all!!!
Not much to say right now. Due to colds, we had to cancel our vist to the relatives. Instead we slept or watched strange Holiday TV specials. Had soup for dinner and went to bed early. I don't think it cleared 20 degrees and the wind was howling. The half block walk to feed the neighbor's cats was a struggle. They seemed happy to be fed and petted.
Still the spirit of the season shines. Hope it touches you.
Keep the Sol in Solstice!
Not much to say right now. Due to colds, we had to cancel our vist to the relatives. Instead we slept or watched strange Holiday TV specials. Had soup for dinner and went to bed early. I don't think it cleared 20 degrees and the wind was howling. The half block walk to feed the neighbor's cats was a struggle. They seemed happy to be fed and petted.
Still the spirit of the season shines. Hope it touches you.
Keep the Sol in Solstice!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Remembering Zechariah
Last Wednesday I got a message that one of my oldest and closest friends had died complications from Hepatitis C. It’s been a year for losses. Les Paul, an old school pal, Eddie Johnson, my sister-in-law, Kathy… It seems like every time I fire up the computer someone I know just died. Zech’s death hit me the hardest, though.
In the past few years his health had been in decline. He was living with his elderly parents in Las Vegas, an atmosphere that was anything but supportive. He’d trashed his body doing physical labor as a cement mason and his immune system was weakened by a bout with cancer in the late ‘70’s that he beat, but he thought that it was during his time in the hospital that he contracted the hepatitis. And he was anything but a candidate for a transplant.
In the last few years it seemed like he was a test subject for what ever drugs his doctors wanted to experiment with. He went through quite a few doctors and I think it took a while for him to get a proper diagnosis. And the drugs affected him in different ways. Zech would call me, usually on Sunday afternoons when his cell phone rates were cheapest and I’d listen to his latest adventures. You were never quite sure what you were going to get. Some conversations would be more coherent then others. And they left me in various states from sadness to hopefulness. He had a fighting spirit and was making plans for the future up until the end.
Another aspect of Zech’s personality was that he was always encouraging and positive, especially encouraging me with my music. He was always glad to hear when I was out playing and told me it was what I should be doing. The other side of that was that he could come down hard on himself. He could be your biggest cheerleader and his own worst critic. The last time we spoke was about two weeks ago. As we finished up the conversation he said something about his doctors giving him another five years to live. The thought that jumped in to my mind was that he wouldn’t be around anywhere near that long. But I had no idea it would be a matter of weeks.
I first met Zech on a trip to Tucson. One summer two friends, Dave and Frank, borrowed another friend’s ’59 Chevy Panel Truck and we went on the road driving from the bay area, to LA, Tucson, The Grand Canyon, Provo, Utah, Yellowstone, Seattle and back down the coast. Zech was the roommate of friends we had in Tucson. A bond was made and we kept in touch. A few years later we re-connected at a wedding and a few years after that, Dave brought him up to Eureka where I was living and we got a house together. That first night we got out the guitars and jammed.
Before long, we heard that we could sing for our supper at a place in Arcata called the International Peasant. Then we found out that not only could we get fed, but we could also get paid at Tomaso’s Tomato Pies in Eureka. That soon became our home base. As the King Salmon Nuke Spooks (believe it or not, at that time, no one could spell “nuke.” It was almost always misspelled “nook”), we became one of three or four ensembles who rotated on Friday and Saturday nights. We added Dan Berkowitz on bass and had occasional guests from other bands. The band name came from the fact that we lived in the village of King Salmon, right next to the Humboldt Bay Nuclear Power Plant. And when he’d been in the army, Dave worked on the electronics of the nuclear arsenal in Germany.
In Eureka, I was a sometime student and janitor, Dave was a fulltime student on the G.I. Bill and Zak had a number of jobs including Special Ed teacher and logger. One of Zech’s nicknames was “Skinner.” He was a skinny guy, anything but the typical lumberjack. He didn’t last long, but he gave his best.
It was a wonderful time to be young. There were many beautiful girls in our lives. Zech attracted many. He was a little pock marked but good looking and charming as could be. And when he sang that voice would just melt their hearts. There were a few he loved and lost that he could have probably settled down with. But that was never to be.
The music carried us. We could be cranky, depressed, over thinking a situation and we’d get together and sing and all of the BS would be gone. We weren’t the greatest band there ever was, but we made magic together. There were times we’d be playing and Zech would throw in a harmony that would make give you goose flesh. There was a spot in the set where he’d play two chords on the guitar back and forth, usually Am7 to Gm7 and he’d improvise lyrics while Dave, Dan and I backed him up throwing in lead licks or vocal fills. That was often the highlight of our show.
The Nuke Spooks were from the CSN school of music, acoustic guitars and harmony singing. Only we rarely worked out our vocal parts. And besides the sensitive singer-songwriter stuff, we played some songs that the Fugs might have found appealing. But it made people laugh and sing along. We never took it that seriously.
The show was arranged where we’d play a dinner set of softer songs, then at 10:00 PM, we’d take all the tables out and stack ‘em outside by the front of the door and play rowdy dance music. Our bass player, Dan also played Sousaphone for the HSU marching band. To begin the dance set we’d go out the side door of the restaurant and walk down the alley playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” entering through the front door and up on the little platform that was our stage.
Another part of our show was the Hoky Poky where we’d sing, “You put your crotch in, you put your crotch out, you put your crotch in and you shake it all about…” And we also played musical chairs where the winner got a pitcher of beer. After a little while we realized that we could rig the results. We tried to be fair, but there were those nights when you thought to yourself, “which one of those girls would I like to see drunk?” and we’d stop the music appropriately.
Zech was the first to leave Humboldt County. I don’t remember the circumstance, but I think he got his heart broke and shipping out was his way of dealing with things. Dave and Dan and I played a few gigs afterwards, but it wasn’t The Nuke Spooks anymore. Dave bought a mandolin and moved to Arizona where he started playing old time string band music, which led him to Celtic music. He’s since become one of the best Celtic Mandolin players on the planet.
Since then our paths crossed. I ended up in Tucson on and off and Zech was living there some of that time. After living in Minneapolis, Dave relocated there too bringing his soon to be bride, Jean, with him. Though we played together from time to time, we never had a band again. Zech had little self-confidence in his abilities as a musician, I wanted to play rock ‘n’ roll and Dave was playing the contra dances.
After a difficult break up, it was my turn to runaway and join the circus. I hooked up with the Elkins, WV band “Trapezoid” and worked for a couple of years as their touring sound-dude, merch peddler and assistant office manager. One tour brought us to Arizona. We were playing up in Tempe and I made sure that Dave and Zech were on the guest list. Only it was real hard to get Zech to go out. So Dave called him up and said, “Let’s go out for a burger.” That was something Zech could relate to. So Dave picked him up and they got to talking and driving and around Casa Grande, Zech turned to Dave and said, “Just where is this burger place were going to?”
It’s interesting to note that Dave used this same ploy to get Zech out of the house (and town) at least two other times!
Zech was Polish. He made Dave and I honorary Polish Brothers. He was proud of that part of his family heritage, even though he rejected a lot of other aspects of it. His parents had a strong influence on him, not always positive. I don’t know the details so I’ll refrain from saying more. One story I do know was that Zech was pressured to play golf as a teenager. By all accounts, he was great at it. Only he hated golf. So he never developed his talent.
One game he was good at and liked was billiards. Besides a little herb dealing he made his way through the University of Arizona as a pool hustler. During our time in Eureka, Zech entered a pool contest in Arcata. We used to have the chart of the matches and the outcomes on our wall. Starting at the bottom of the list he ended up winning it all. During his last match, he cleared the table. His opponent left the bar whining, “He didn’t even give me a chance to shoot.”
Zech was a compassionate soul. He’d help you in any way he could. But if you crossed him, or he felt you burned him, then you no longer existed. He was also psychic. His abilities got strongest right before he started taking medication for his illness while living in Las Vegas. In one instance, he gave a women he knew the numbers that won her a substantial amount of money at a casino. The next time he was in that casino for the buffet, two burley guys escorted him out and told him in no uncertain terms that he was unwelcome there, or any other casino in Vegas. Yes, it was related to the woman’s winnings. How they found out, I never knew.
He was good at predicting things. He predicted things about my partner Laura’s brother’s life that were dead on. He told Laura some thing’s as well that were scary accurate. I’m not sure how to came to be but his doctors diagnosed him with psychosis and the drugs they gave him diminished his gift and he gave up his powers. He wasn’t psychotic, he was psychic. And “Medical Science” doesn’t yet recognize the difference. Yes, they still burn witches in the 21st Century. Only they burn them from the inside out with anti-depressants and mood-altering chemicals. Living in Las Vegas he didn’t have a support network he could trust to practice his gift openly. And he suffered for it.
He could be one of the funniest people, too. There were things he said that I’ll never forget. Little one liners, comments, descriptions. Some I could write, others I shouldn’t use in polite company. I could go on with Zech stories. But I’ll save them for another time. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I couldn’t get to Las Vegas in time for the services and the last time I talked to him, I thought there’d be another chance.
I’ll miss those weird Sunday phone calls, his laugh, but most of all his voice soaring along with mine. One night Zech and I sang with Belle Weil, a dear friend and one of Zech’s loves at a little restaurant/bar in Arcata. I played guitar and there was an amazing bassist and drummer backing us up. We played “Wooden Ships.” We sang that song like a prayer, like our lives depended on it. CSN or Jefferson Airplane couldn’t hold a candle to us that night. Those are the moments I’ll forever keep in my heart when I think of Zech.
I’ll miss you, my Polish Brother. God Speed.
In the past few years his health had been in decline. He was living with his elderly parents in Las Vegas, an atmosphere that was anything but supportive. He’d trashed his body doing physical labor as a cement mason and his immune system was weakened by a bout with cancer in the late ‘70’s that he beat, but he thought that it was during his time in the hospital that he contracted the hepatitis. And he was anything but a candidate for a transplant.
In the last few years it seemed like he was a test subject for what ever drugs his doctors wanted to experiment with. He went through quite a few doctors and I think it took a while for him to get a proper diagnosis. And the drugs affected him in different ways. Zech would call me, usually on Sunday afternoons when his cell phone rates were cheapest and I’d listen to his latest adventures. You were never quite sure what you were going to get. Some conversations would be more coherent then others. And they left me in various states from sadness to hopefulness. He had a fighting spirit and was making plans for the future up until the end.
Another aspect of Zech’s personality was that he was always encouraging and positive, especially encouraging me with my music. He was always glad to hear when I was out playing and told me it was what I should be doing. The other side of that was that he could come down hard on himself. He could be your biggest cheerleader and his own worst critic. The last time we spoke was about two weeks ago. As we finished up the conversation he said something about his doctors giving him another five years to live. The thought that jumped in to my mind was that he wouldn’t be around anywhere near that long. But I had no idea it would be a matter of weeks.
I first met Zech on a trip to Tucson. One summer two friends, Dave and Frank, borrowed another friend’s ’59 Chevy Panel Truck and we went on the road driving from the bay area, to LA, Tucson, The Grand Canyon, Provo, Utah, Yellowstone, Seattle and back down the coast. Zech was the roommate of friends we had in Tucson. A bond was made and we kept in touch. A few years later we re-connected at a wedding and a few years after that, Dave brought him up to Eureka where I was living and we got a house together. That first night we got out the guitars and jammed.
Before long, we heard that we could sing for our supper at a place in Arcata called the International Peasant. Then we found out that not only could we get fed, but we could also get paid at Tomaso’s Tomato Pies in Eureka. That soon became our home base. As the King Salmon Nuke Spooks (believe it or not, at that time, no one could spell “nuke.” It was almost always misspelled “nook”), we became one of three or four ensembles who rotated on Friday and Saturday nights. We added Dan Berkowitz on bass and had occasional guests from other bands. The band name came from the fact that we lived in the village of King Salmon, right next to the Humboldt Bay Nuclear Power Plant. And when he’d been in the army, Dave worked on the electronics of the nuclear arsenal in Germany.
In Eureka, I was a sometime student and janitor, Dave was a fulltime student on the G.I. Bill and Zak had a number of jobs including Special Ed teacher and logger. One of Zech’s nicknames was “Skinner.” He was a skinny guy, anything but the typical lumberjack. He didn’t last long, but he gave his best.
It was a wonderful time to be young. There were many beautiful girls in our lives. Zech attracted many. He was a little pock marked but good looking and charming as could be. And when he sang that voice would just melt their hearts. There were a few he loved and lost that he could have probably settled down with. But that was never to be.
The music carried us. We could be cranky, depressed, over thinking a situation and we’d get together and sing and all of the BS would be gone. We weren’t the greatest band there ever was, but we made magic together. There were times we’d be playing and Zech would throw in a harmony that would make give you goose flesh. There was a spot in the set where he’d play two chords on the guitar back and forth, usually Am7 to Gm7 and he’d improvise lyrics while Dave, Dan and I backed him up throwing in lead licks or vocal fills. That was often the highlight of our show.
The Nuke Spooks were from the CSN school of music, acoustic guitars and harmony singing. Only we rarely worked out our vocal parts. And besides the sensitive singer-songwriter stuff, we played some songs that the Fugs might have found appealing. But it made people laugh and sing along. We never took it that seriously.
The show was arranged where we’d play a dinner set of softer songs, then at 10:00 PM, we’d take all the tables out and stack ‘em outside by the front of the door and play rowdy dance music. Our bass player, Dan also played Sousaphone for the HSU marching band. To begin the dance set we’d go out the side door of the restaurant and walk down the alley playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” entering through the front door and up on the little platform that was our stage.
Another part of our show was the Hoky Poky where we’d sing, “You put your crotch in, you put your crotch out, you put your crotch in and you shake it all about…” And we also played musical chairs where the winner got a pitcher of beer. After a little while we realized that we could rig the results. We tried to be fair, but there were those nights when you thought to yourself, “which one of those girls would I like to see drunk?” and we’d stop the music appropriately.
Zech was the first to leave Humboldt County. I don’t remember the circumstance, but I think he got his heart broke and shipping out was his way of dealing with things. Dave and Dan and I played a few gigs afterwards, but it wasn’t The Nuke Spooks anymore. Dave bought a mandolin and moved to Arizona where he started playing old time string band music, which led him to Celtic music. He’s since become one of the best Celtic Mandolin players on the planet.
Since then our paths crossed. I ended up in Tucson on and off and Zech was living there some of that time. After living in Minneapolis, Dave relocated there too bringing his soon to be bride, Jean, with him. Though we played together from time to time, we never had a band again. Zech had little self-confidence in his abilities as a musician, I wanted to play rock ‘n’ roll and Dave was playing the contra dances.
After a difficult break up, it was my turn to runaway and join the circus. I hooked up with the Elkins, WV band “Trapezoid” and worked for a couple of years as their touring sound-dude, merch peddler and assistant office manager. One tour brought us to Arizona. We were playing up in Tempe and I made sure that Dave and Zech were on the guest list. Only it was real hard to get Zech to go out. So Dave called him up and said, “Let’s go out for a burger.” That was something Zech could relate to. So Dave picked him up and they got to talking and driving and around Casa Grande, Zech turned to Dave and said, “Just where is this burger place were going to?”
It’s interesting to note that Dave used this same ploy to get Zech out of the house (and town) at least two other times!
Zech was Polish. He made Dave and I honorary Polish Brothers. He was proud of that part of his family heritage, even though he rejected a lot of other aspects of it. His parents had a strong influence on him, not always positive. I don’t know the details so I’ll refrain from saying more. One story I do know was that Zech was pressured to play golf as a teenager. By all accounts, he was great at it. Only he hated golf. So he never developed his talent.
One game he was good at and liked was billiards. Besides a little herb dealing he made his way through the University of Arizona as a pool hustler. During our time in Eureka, Zech entered a pool contest in Arcata. We used to have the chart of the matches and the outcomes on our wall. Starting at the bottom of the list he ended up winning it all. During his last match, he cleared the table. His opponent left the bar whining, “He didn’t even give me a chance to shoot.”
Zech was a compassionate soul. He’d help you in any way he could. But if you crossed him, or he felt you burned him, then you no longer existed. He was also psychic. His abilities got strongest right before he started taking medication for his illness while living in Las Vegas. In one instance, he gave a women he knew the numbers that won her a substantial amount of money at a casino. The next time he was in that casino for the buffet, two burley guys escorted him out and told him in no uncertain terms that he was unwelcome there, or any other casino in Vegas. Yes, it was related to the woman’s winnings. How they found out, I never knew.
He was good at predicting things. He predicted things about my partner Laura’s brother’s life that were dead on. He told Laura some thing’s as well that were scary accurate. I’m not sure how to came to be but his doctors diagnosed him with psychosis and the drugs they gave him diminished his gift and he gave up his powers. He wasn’t psychotic, he was psychic. And “Medical Science” doesn’t yet recognize the difference. Yes, they still burn witches in the 21st Century. Only they burn them from the inside out with anti-depressants and mood-altering chemicals. Living in Las Vegas he didn’t have a support network he could trust to practice his gift openly. And he suffered for it.
He could be one of the funniest people, too. There were things he said that I’ll never forget. Little one liners, comments, descriptions. Some I could write, others I shouldn’t use in polite company. I could go on with Zech stories. But I’ll save them for another time. I regret that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I couldn’t get to Las Vegas in time for the services and the last time I talked to him, I thought there’d be another chance.
I’ll miss those weird Sunday phone calls, his laugh, but most of all his voice soaring along with mine. One night Zech and I sang with Belle Weil, a dear friend and one of Zech’s loves at a little restaurant/bar in Arcata. I played guitar and there was an amazing bassist and drummer backing us up. We played “Wooden Ships.” We sang that song like a prayer, like our lives depended on it. CSN or Jefferson Airplane couldn’t hold a candle to us that night. Those are the moments I’ll forever keep in my heart when I think of Zech.
I’ll miss you, my Polish Brother. God Speed.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Why Music Matters
This was posted on the Telecaster Discussion Page Reissue. Things I try to say but can't find the words to explain.
Why Music Matters
Karl Paulnack, Director, Music DivisionThe Boston Conservatory
Dr. Karl Paulnack’s Welcome Address to parents of incoming students, September 2004
“One of my parents’ deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not properly value me as a musician… I had very good grades in high school, I was good in science and math, and they imagined that as a doctor or a research chemist or an engineer, I might be more appreciated… I still remember my mother’s remark when I announced my decision to apply to music school. She said, “You’re wasting your SAT scores!” On some level, I think, my parents were not sure themselves what the value of music was, what its purpose was. And they loved music: they listened to classical music all the time. They just weren’t really clear about its function. So let me talk about that a little bit, because we live in a society that puts music in the “arts and entertainment” section of the newspaper, and serious music, the kind your kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with entertainment, in fact it’s the opposite…
Let me talk a little bit about music, and how it works.
One of the first cultures to articulate how music really works were the ancient Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you: the Greeks said that music and astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside us. Let me give you some examples of how this works.
One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940. Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany. He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940 and imprisoned in a prisoner-of-war camp.
He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a place to compose, and fortunate to have musician colleagues in the camp, a cellist, a violinist, and a clarinetist. Messiaen wrote his quartet with these specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand prisoners and guards in the prison camp. Today it is one of the most famous masterworks in the repertoire.
Given what we have since learned about life in the Nazi camps, why would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water, to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture — why would anyone bother with music? And yet even from the concentration camps we have poetry, we have music, we have visual art; it wasn’t just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must be, somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope, without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we say, “I am alive, and my life has meaning.”
In September of 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. On the morning of September 12, 2001 I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn’t this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.
And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.
At least in my neighborhood, we didn’t shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn’t play cards to pass the time, we didn’t watch TV, we didn’t shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, on the very evening of September 11th, was singing. People sang. People sang around firehouses, people sang “We Shall Overcome.” Lots of people sang “America the Beautiful.” The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.
From these two experiences, I have come to understand that music is not part of “arts and entertainment” as the newspaper section would have us believe. It’s not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pastime. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can’t with our minds.
Some of you may know Samuel Barber’s heart wrenchingly beautiful piece “Adagio for Strings.” If you don’t know it by that name, then some of you may know it as the background music which accompanied the Oliver Stone movie “Platoon,” a film about the Vietnam War. If you know that piece of music either way, you know it has the ability to crack your heart open like a walnut; it can make you cry over sadness you didn’t know you had. Music can slip beneath our conscious reality to get at what’s really going on inside us the way a good therapist does.
Very few of you have ever been to a wedding where there was absolutely no music. There might have been only a little music, there might have been some really bad music, but with few exceptions there is some music. And something very predictable happens at weddings-people get all pent up with all kinds of emotions, and then there’s some musical moment where the action of the wedding stops and someone sings or plays the flute or something. And even if the music is lame, even if the quality isn’t good, predictably 30 or 40 percent of the people who are going to cry at a wedding cry a couple of moments after the music starts. Why? The Greeks. Music allows us to move around those big invisible pieces of ourselves and rearrange our insides so that we can express what we feel even when we can’t talk about it. Can you imagine watching Indiana Jones or Superman or Star Wars with the dialogue but no music? What is it about the music swelling up at just the right moment in ET so that all the softies in the audience start crying at exactly the same moment? I guarantee you if you showed the movie with the music stripped out, it wouldn’t happen that way. The Greeks. Music is the understanding of the relationship between invisible internal objects.
I’ll give you one more example. The most important concert of my entire life took place in a nursing home in a small Mid-western town a few years ago.I was playing with a very dear friend of mine who is a violinist. We began, as we often do, with Aaron Copland’s Sonata, which was written during World War II and dedicated to a young friend of Copland’s, a young pilot who was shot down during the war. Now we often talk to our audiences about the pieces we are going to play rather than providing them with written program notes. But in this case, because we began the concert with this piece, we decided to talk about the piece later in the program and to just come out and play the music without explanation.
Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the front of the concert hall began to weep. This man, whom I later met, was clearly a soldier. Even in his 70’s it was clear from his buzz-cut hair, square jaw and general demeanor that he had spent a good deal of his life in the military. I thought it a little bit odd that someone would be moved to tears by that particular movement of that particular piece, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard crying in a concert and we went on with the concert and finished the piece.When we came out to play the next piece on the program, we decided to talk about both the first and second pieces, and we described the circumstances in which the Copland was written and mentioned its dedication to a downed pilot. The man in the front of the audience became so disturbed that he had to leave the auditorium. I honestly figured that we would not see him again, but he did come backstage afterwards, tears and all, to explain himself.
What he told us was this: “During World War II I was a pilot, and I was in an aerial combat situation where one of my team’s planes was hit. I watched my friend bail out, and watched his parachute open, but the Japanese planes which had engaged us returned and machine gunned across the parachute cords so as to separate the parachute from the pilot, and I watched my friend drop away into the ocean, realizing that he was lost. I have not thought about this for many years, but during that first piece of music you played, this memory returned to me so vividly that it was as though I was reliving it. I didn’t understand why this was happening, why now, but then when you came out to explain that this piece of music was written to commemorate a lost pilot, it was a little more than I could handle. How does the music do that? How did it find those feelings and those memories in me?”
Remember the Greeks: music is the study of invisible relationships between internal objects. The concert in the nursing home was the most important work I have ever done. For me to play for this old soldier and help him connect, somehow, with Aaron Copland, and to connect their memories of their lost friends, to help him remember and mourn his friend, this is my work. This is why music matters.
The responsibility I will charge your sons and daughters with is this: “If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing appendectomies, you’d take your work very seriously because you would imagine that some night at 2 AM someone is going to waltz into your emergency room and you’re going to have to save their life. Well, my friends, someday at 8 PM someone is going to walk into your concert hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on how well you do your craft.“
You’re not here to become an entertainer, and you don’t have to sell yourself. The truth is you don’t have anything to sell; being a musician isn’t about dispensing a product, like selling used cars. I’m not an entertainer; I’m a lot closer to a paramedic, a firefighter, a rescue worker. You’re here to become a sort of therapist for the human soul, a spiritual version of a chiropractor, physical therapist, someone who works with our insides to see if they get things to line up, to see if we can come into harmony with ourselves and be healthy and happy and well.“
Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I expect you not only to master music, I expect you to save the planet. If there is a future wave of wellness on this planet, of harmony, of peace, of an end to war, of mutual understanding, of equality, of fairness, I don’t expect it will come from a government, a military force or a corporation. I no longer even expect it to come from the religions of the world, which together seem to have brought us as much war as they have peace. If there is a future of peace for humankind, if there is to be an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that’s what we do. As in the concentration camp and the evening of 9/11, the artists are the ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives.”
Why Music Matters
Karl Paulnack, Director, Music DivisionThe Boston Conservatory
Dr. Karl Paulnack’s Welcome Address to parents of incoming students, September 2004
“One of my parents’ deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not properly value me as a musician… I had very good grades in high school, I was good in science and math, and they imagined that as a doctor or a research chemist or an engineer, I might be more appreciated… I still remember my mother’s remark when I announced my decision to apply to music school. She said, “You’re wasting your SAT scores!” On some level, I think, my parents were not sure themselves what the value of music was, what its purpose was. And they loved music: they listened to classical music all the time. They just weren’t really clear about its function. So let me talk about that a little bit, because we live in a society that puts music in the “arts and entertainment” section of the newspaper, and serious music, the kind your kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with entertainment, in fact it’s the opposite…
Let me talk a little bit about music, and how it works.
One of the first cultures to articulate how music really works were the ancient Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you: the Greeks said that music and astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside us. Let me give you some examples of how this works.
One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940. Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany. He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940 and imprisoned in a prisoner-of-war camp.
He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a place to compose, and fortunate to have musician colleagues in the camp, a cellist, a violinist, and a clarinetist. Messiaen wrote his quartet with these specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand prisoners and guards in the prison camp. Today it is one of the most famous masterworks in the repertoire.
Given what we have since learned about life in the Nazi camps, why would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water, to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture — why would anyone bother with music? And yet even from the concentration camps we have poetry, we have music, we have visual art; it wasn’t just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must be, somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope, without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we say, “I am alive, and my life has meaning.”
In September of 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. On the morning of September 12, 2001 I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn’t this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.
And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.
At least in my neighborhood, we didn’t shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn’t play cards to pass the time, we didn’t watch TV, we didn’t shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, on the very evening of September 11th, was singing. People sang. People sang around firehouses, people sang “We Shall Overcome.” Lots of people sang “America the Beautiful.” The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.
From these two experiences, I have come to understand that music is not part of “arts and entertainment” as the newspaper section would have us believe. It’s not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pastime. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can’t with our minds.
Some of you may know Samuel Barber’s heart wrenchingly beautiful piece “Adagio for Strings.” If you don’t know it by that name, then some of you may know it as the background music which accompanied the Oliver Stone movie “Platoon,” a film about the Vietnam War. If you know that piece of music either way, you know it has the ability to crack your heart open like a walnut; it can make you cry over sadness you didn’t know you had. Music can slip beneath our conscious reality to get at what’s really going on inside us the way a good therapist does.
Very few of you have ever been to a wedding where there was absolutely no music. There might have been only a little music, there might have been some really bad music, but with few exceptions there is some music. And something very predictable happens at weddings-people get all pent up with all kinds of emotions, and then there’s some musical moment where the action of the wedding stops and someone sings or plays the flute or something. And even if the music is lame, even if the quality isn’t good, predictably 30 or 40 percent of the people who are going to cry at a wedding cry a couple of moments after the music starts. Why? The Greeks. Music allows us to move around those big invisible pieces of ourselves and rearrange our insides so that we can express what we feel even when we can’t talk about it. Can you imagine watching Indiana Jones or Superman or Star Wars with the dialogue but no music? What is it about the music swelling up at just the right moment in ET so that all the softies in the audience start crying at exactly the same moment? I guarantee you if you showed the movie with the music stripped out, it wouldn’t happen that way. The Greeks. Music is the understanding of the relationship between invisible internal objects.
I’ll give you one more example. The most important concert of my entire life took place in a nursing home in a small Mid-western town a few years ago.I was playing with a very dear friend of mine who is a violinist. We began, as we often do, with Aaron Copland’s Sonata, which was written during World War II and dedicated to a young friend of Copland’s, a young pilot who was shot down during the war. Now we often talk to our audiences about the pieces we are going to play rather than providing them with written program notes. But in this case, because we began the concert with this piece, we decided to talk about the piece later in the program and to just come out and play the music without explanation.
Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the front of the concert hall began to weep. This man, whom I later met, was clearly a soldier. Even in his 70’s it was clear from his buzz-cut hair, square jaw and general demeanor that he had spent a good deal of his life in the military. I thought it a little bit odd that someone would be moved to tears by that particular movement of that particular piece, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard crying in a concert and we went on with the concert and finished the piece.When we came out to play the next piece on the program, we decided to talk about both the first and second pieces, and we described the circumstances in which the Copland was written and mentioned its dedication to a downed pilot. The man in the front of the audience became so disturbed that he had to leave the auditorium. I honestly figured that we would not see him again, but he did come backstage afterwards, tears and all, to explain himself.
What he told us was this: “During World War II I was a pilot, and I was in an aerial combat situation where one of my team’s planes was hit. I watched my friend bail out, and watched his parachute open, but the Japanese planes which had engaged us returned and machine gunned across the parachute cords so as to separate the parachute from the pilot, and I watched my friend drop away into the ocean, realizing that he was lost. I have not thought about this for many years, but during that first piece of music you played, this memory returned to me so vividly that it was as though I was reliving it. I didn’t understand why this was happening, why now, but then when you came out to explain that this piece of music was written to commemorate a lost pilot, it was a little more than I could handle. How does the music do that? How did it find those feelings and those memories in me?”
Remember the Greeks: music is the study of invisible relationships between internal objects. The concert in the nursing home was the most important work I have ever done. For me to play for this old soldier and help him connect, somehow, with Aaron Copland, and to connect their memories of their lost friends, to help him remember and mourn his friend, this is my work. This is why music matters.
The responsibility I will charge your sons and daughters with is this: “If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing appendectomies, you’d take your work very seriously because you would imagine that some night at 2 AM someone is going to waltz into your emergency room and you’re going to have to save their life. Well, my friends, someday at 8 PM someone is going to walk into your concert hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on how well you do your craft.“
You’re not here to become an entertainer, and you don’t have to sell yourself. The truth is you don’t have anything to sell; being a musician isn’t about dispensing a product, like selling used cars. I’m not an entertainer; I’m a lot closer to a paramedic, a firefighter, a rescue worker. You’re here to become a sort of therapist for the human soul, a spiritual version of a chiropractor, physical therapist, someone who works with our insides to see if they get things to line up, to see if we can come into harmony with ourselves and be healthy and happy and well.“
Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I expect you not only to master music, I expect you to save the planet. If there is a future wave of wellness on this planet, of harmony, of peace, of an end to war, of mutual understanding, of equality, of fairness, I don’t expect it will come from a government, a military force or a corporation. I no longer even expect it to come from the religions of the world, which together seem to have brought us as much war as they have peace. If there is a future of peace for humankind, if there is to be an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that’s what we do. As in the concentration camp and the evening of 9/11, the artists are the ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives.”
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I Object!
My post was cut off.
What I was saying was, if you find my blog objectional, why don't you contact me and discuss it? I won't flame you, I'm a nice guy. Otherwise, I'll think you're just someone who has way too much time on their hands and is easily offended and shouldn't venture out of their house and be exposed to the real world. Let me tell you, I could be REAL offensive. But I choose not to be. There's enough crap out there.
Peace.
What I was saying was, if you find my blog objectional, why don't you contact me and discuss it? I won't flame you, I'm a nice guy. Otherwise, I'll think you're just someone who has way too much time on their hands and is easily offended and shouldn't venture out of their house and be exposed to the real world. Let me tell you, I could be REAL offensive. But I choose not to be. There's enough crap out there.
Peace.
A Good Evening
Tonight there was a showing at a gallery and a reception for the artist. The Gallery is Fort Collin's own Walnut Street Gallery (The Art of Rock 'n Roll www.walnutst.com) and the artist was Grateful Dead drummer Bill Kreutzmann. Laura and I went for the private reception at six o'clock. This is the third time we've met Bill. He's a wonderful guy and one of the best drummers on the planet. The last time we saw him he gave us tips on where to go and what to see in Hawaii. His art is made on computer using Photo SHop and is transfered to canvas. It's very psychedelic with images upon images with good use of color. It's reasonable as far as cost goes too. We didn't get much one on one time with Bill, but I did give him one of Tuatha's CD's and told him it was nothing like The Grateful Dead.
I got to meet another person tonight as well, a fellow named John Turk who produces The Jay Marvin Show on AM 760 KZZN in Denver. (www.am760.net.) Jay is a lefty talk show host who I enjoy and have been listening to since before the 2006 election. John is the guy who screens the calls, gets guests on and sometimes pipes in with his own commentary. He's also a big jam-band fan, especially Widespread Panic. They've been talking about music, art and literature more now that the election is over and I gave him contact info on Tuatha. We got on like old pals. He brought a friend who lives here in Fort Collins named Paige who Laura struck up a conversation with and we didn't hear from them for quite a while. Very cool guy. It's a little odd to be looking for someone you never met, who you feel you know because you listen to them on the radio. I had no idea what he looked like, I just knew his voice. I was listening for it, but never heard it until he came up to me. (I'd left him an e-mail after listening to his interview with Bill Kreutmann this morning discribing myself.) It's even better to discover they're down to earth, good folks.
Thanks to Laura and Bill at Walnut St. Gallery for hosting the shindig. One of these days we'll be able to buy more art!
I got to meet another person tonight as well, a fellow named John Turk who produces The Jay Marvin Show on AM 760 KZZN in Denver. (www.am760.net.) Jay is a lefty talk show host who I enjoy and have been listening to since before the 2006 election. John is the guy who screens the calls, gets guests on and sometimes pipes in with his own commentary. He's also a big jam-band fan, especially Widespread Panic. They've been talking about music, art and literature more now that the election is over and I gave him contact info on Tuatha. We got on like old pals. He brought a friend who lives here in Fort Collins named Paige who Laura struck up a conversation with and we didn't hear from them for quite a while. Very cool guy. It's a little odd to be looking for someone you never met, who you feel you know because you listen to them on the radio. I had no idea what he looked like, I just knew his voice. I was listening for it, but never heard it until he came up to me. (I'd left him an e-mail after listening to his interview with Bill Kreutmann this morning discribing myself.) It's even better to discover they're down to earth, good folks.
Thanks to Laura and Bill at Walnut St. Gallery for hosting the shindig. One of these days we'll be able to buy more art!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
